


Ilium

by Wexchester (Charmsilver)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M, Trojan War AU, Unfinished
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 13:02:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5091743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmsilver/pseuds/Wexchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the abduction of Mary Winchester by Zachariah, John Winchester leads a cohort of hunters to the dilapidated town of Ilium where an impenetrable fortress holds Mary captive. Together the hunters launch a full scale attack on Ilium, but the true nature of the war is beyond what any of them anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ilium

**Author's Note:**

> Hi again friends,
> 
> This is another abandoned fic I unearthed from the attic of my computer. Looking back I wish I had finished this fic, but too much time has passed and I have forgotten who half the characters are anyway! If you've studied the Trojan War then you might be able to guess how it ends, but I leave you with just the beginning.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading.

"The woes of Troy, towers smothering o'er their blaze,  
Stiff-holden shields, far-piercing spears, keen blades,  
Struggling, and blood, and shrieks–all dimly fades  
Into some backward corner of the brain."

_-_ _Endymion,_ John Keats

 

"To live in this world

 

you must be able

to do three things:

to love what is mortal;

to hold it

 

against your bones knowing

your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it go,

to let it go"

_-_ _In Blackwater Woods_ , Mary Oliver

 

**Prologue**

 

Zachariah hates his life.

He lights a cigarillo and takes a lingering drag before dropping it on the alleyway pavement, unimpressed. His shoe scuffs the ground where it lies and the wrapping splits, leaving the sub-standard tobacco entrails to scatter out across the dirty concrete. _A shitty cigarillo for a shitty day_ , he thinks. _And a shitty day for an eternally shitty life_.

A dry laugh wheezes its way out of his throat and he coughs once – loudly. If he were human this would all be a whole lot simpler: off himself and be done with it. But Zachariah is an angel, and they don’t die so easy. Which is just his damn luck.

He throws the pack of cigarillos into a nearby trashcan in disgust and replaces his hands in his trouser pockets, sighing up at the star-dusted sky. Each tiny ball of light twinkles with mockery and glee, and he curses them under his breath.

“Bad day, brother?” The voice sounds from somewhere in the gloom, and Zachariah jumps, squinting to spot the intruder.

“Who’s there?” he asks, flexing his fingers in anticipation.

The body of a man materialises from the shadows, lips curled up in an amiable smile. “Just little old me,” Lucifer says, advancing on Zachariah slowly.

“What are you doing here?” Zachariah steps back a pace, swallowing his nervousness like a shard of glass.

Lucifer shrugs and comes to a standstill. “You looked like you could use some company.”

“ _Company_ is the last thing I need,” Zachariah says.

“Alright, alright, no need to get all snappy.” Lucifer sniffs and begins to inspect the cuticles of his right hand. “But you know, Zach, I could help you.”

Zachariah blinks, his eyes narrowing. “And why would you want to do that?”

Lucifer is silent for a long moment, his face illuminated by the light of the moon alone. He meets Zachariah’s eye and smiles, trapping him in a steady gaze. “Have you ever wanted to watch the world burn?”

That takes Zachariah by surprise, though he’s not sure why – this is _Lucifer_ speaking, after all. “On occasion,” he replies, attempting nonchalance.

The devil laughs in a cherubic fashion and snaps his fingers, causing a smooth golden apple to appear in his hand. He tosses it in the air with a grin and regards Zachariah genially. “Then you might be interested in what I have to say.”

“Okay,” Zachariah says slowly, watching the apple be tossed and caught, tossed and caught. “Tell me.”

Lucifer’s smile widens. “I know about you, little brother. I know about your mundane, unfulfilling job that has you pushing pencils all day, even though you believe you were made for much _greater_ things. I know you’re sick of being a lowly pawn in a much larger game. You want respect and perhaps even a little fame. You want… _glory_.”

Zachariah shifts on his feet, wary but curious. “Get to the point, Lucifer.”

“The point,” Lucifer says, throwing the apple one more time before vanishing it in mid-air with another snap of his fingers, “is that I could give you every one of those things, if you would only cooperate with me.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You go on living your boring little life, never knowing what it’s like to be _truly_ powerful.” He pouts melodramatically. “It’s up to you.”

Zachariah is quiet; he wishes he had not thrown those below-average cigarillos away, if only for something to do with his hands while he thinks. On the one hand Lucifer is not known for his honest, or even pleasant, dealings, but on the other Zachariah can’t see his life getting any worse.

_What the hell,_ he thinks. “Go on.”

Lucifer’s grin returns. “It’s very simple,” he says. “You kidnap a beautiful woman, make her your wife, and I set you up in a cosy new home somewhere – anywhere you like. You’ll have servants to tend to your every need, and the surety of a better life. What do you say?”

Zachariah shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

A hurt look passes across Lucifer’s face. “What’s not to get? It’s really as simple as that.”

“Who’s this woman, then?”

Something glints in Lucifer’s eyes and they seem for a brief moment like pinwheels of fire. “Mary Winchester is her name,” he murmurs, “you may have heard of her.”

_Ah, there’s the catch_. Zachariah raises an eyebrow. “You want me to kidnap and marry Mary Winchester. The woman who’s already married to _John_ Winchester.”

“Yes.”

“You’re joking, I assume?”

“ _Brother_ ,” Lucifer purrs, holding out his hands in a gesture of solidarity, “I would _never_.”

Zachariah narrows his eyes. “You are aware, of course, that John Winchester is the most esteemed hunter in this whole country.”

Lucifer makes a face that quite clearly says, _Congratulations, you got it_. “Precisely.”

“You’re going to have to explain this to me again.”

Lucifer sighs and shakes his head in disappointment. “You kidnap Mary Winchester; you marry Mary Winchester; John Winchester comes to get her, bringing with him every able hunter in the country; they declare war; I sit back and enjoy the show. See? All very simple.”

Zachariah’s head is beginning to ache. “I’m not sure I see the benefit of any of that, or why you need me in the first place.” He rubs his temple hard with the tips of his fingers. “Why not kidnap Mary yourself?”

“I merely wish to observe. _You,_ on the other hand, are the one who wants a new life and eternal glory. What better way to gain it than through the war of the century?” His eyes flash again, brighter this time. “Those pipsqueak humans haven’t got a chance against an army of angels and demons. You’ll be a _king_ , brother. You will never smoke another second-rate cigarillo in your life.”

Slowly, an image begins to unfurl inside Zachariah’s mind: grand palaces and multitudes of servants scuttling around beneath his feet like insects. He imagines Mary as his wife – lovely and radiant on the throne next to his – her body soft and compliant beneath his fervent touch.

Zachariah shivers with desire and he has folded before he has a chance to second-guess himself. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Lucifer.”

The devil nods, as if he knew the outcome all along. He claps Zachariah once on the shoulder. “You’ve made the right choice,” he says, beginning to walk away. “We’ll be in touch.”

As Lucifer leaves he snaps his fingers again, and the golden apple reappears in his hand. He tosses it behind him and Zachariah catches it without thinking, startled by the heavy weight as it falls into his palm. Zachariah inspects the surface of the apple carefully, and is surprised to see four letters carved into the otherwise faultless veneer; they are small, but when Zachariah squints and holds the apple up to the light, he can read them without much trouble:

 

E R I S

 

 

**Part 1**

 

Ilium rises up before them like a mountain: a string of tin can houses and dilapidated farm buildings surrounding an iron fortress that towers over the rest of the village. It stands grey and menacing against a cloudy backdrop, not beautiful but terrible: a veritable palatial prison.

Dean leans over the steering wheel to get a better look, straining his eyes at the colossal structure. Somewhere inside his mother is held captive, caught in the vile web of the angel Zachariah. He puts a little more pressure on the accelerator and outpaces Rufus’ truck, coming level with his father’s instead.

John signals for him to stay at a distance and Dean obeys grudgingly, easing up on the pedal until he’s cruising a couple of feet behind his father.

In the seat beside Dean, Sam shifts with nervous energy. His face is turned towards the window, looking out at the sparse scenery rolling by like the reel on a film. Dean wants to say something reassuring but the words curdle in his throat and stick to his oesophagus walls like paste. He swallows, and swallows and swallows.

It isn’t until he meets Cas’ passive gaze in the rear-view mirror that his mouth begins to work again. “When we stop, everyone stays in the car, you hear?” He waits for Cas to nod, then turns to Sam. “You got that?”

“Yeah, Dean, we’ve got it.”

“Okay.” Dean nods. “Good. Nobody gets out of this car until I say so. I dunno what kind of welcoming party they’re planning, but I don’t wanna take any chances, alright?”

It’s stupid, really; both Sam and Cas know the true reason behind Dean’s caution. Chuck’s prophecy sits like an iron weight on Dean’s heart – a silent, gnawing presence that gives rise to every fear he has ever known. And the battle has not even begun.

Dean does a final sweep of their surroundings, noting the flat plains that give little opportunity for concealment, as well as the charred husks of burnt barns that flank the road leading towards Ilium.

At that moment John extends an arm outside his car window and waves to Dean, signalling him to slow down; they’re getting close to the boundary and Dean can sense it, almost like static electricity in the air. He checks that his gun is secure in his holster, and side-eyes Sam to make sure the demon knife is still in his belt. In the backseat Cas is polishing his angel sword idly and staring out the window as if in a trance. Satisfied that they’re all well armed, Dean makes a note of the cars he can see. Rufus’ truck is at his rear, and beside him Gabriel drives an ancient school bus that holds a whole platoon of renegade angels; he seems to sense that Dean is looking and offers him a mock salute – which Dean resolutely ignores.

Other hunters and their vehicles follow behind: Garth in his rusty Ranchero, towing both his and Bobby’s entire collections of lore; Ellen and Jo in their banged-up pickup truck; Gordon and Frank Devereaux; Benny Lafitte, who is perhaps the only decent vampire Dean has ever met; even Missouri Moseley is tagging along.

Hundreds of other hunters have rallied to John’s aid – though Dean only knows a few. Most are friends or acquaintances of his father, known to Dean only as members of the vast and seemingly boundless hunters’ network. The response following John’s call to arms had been greater than any of them could have imagined.

Up ahead John slows to a snail’s pace before stopping completely at the very edge of the town. The first houses branch out to their left and right, and Dean narrows his eyes at them as he gently brings the Impala to a halt beside John. There’s a loud purring of engines for a second, which slowly dies out as every vehicle comes to a stop.

Dean looks over at his father and meets his eye. John nods minutely, confirming that Dean should stay put. Beside him Bobby is loading his shotgun, clogging it with what Dean is sure are solid rock-salt slugs: demon’s bane. John leans over and says something to him, and Bobby nods once – grimly.

The town lies quiet and eerie in front of them, and Dean finds himself holding his breath and gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles have turned white. He tries to push some air out of his lungs and relax his slippery hands, but then the sound of a car door slamming rings out in the silence and Dean tenses again, not daring to look and see who has just sealed their doom. If it’s Jo, or Ellen, or even Benny, Dean will never forgive himself. Sam is equally tense, and he meets Dean’s eye with a frantic, _hopeless_ look.

They look away for as long as they can, but soon whoever they are is rounding the Impala and approaching John’s vehicle.

Dean breathes a sigh of relief, though he hates himself for it. It’s Gordon Walker who’s leaning into the driver’s window of John’s car, speaking loudly and pointing violently towards the grey fortress. Eventually he breaks away from the convoy and steps towards the town, stern-faced and determined. What John said to him, Dean can only imagine.

He crosses the border with a quick step, and at first nothing seems to happen. A light wind picks up, rustling the overgrown grass beneath his feet. Gordon takes another step forward, then another, until he’s well into the outer reaches of the village. He turns, perhaps to look back and see how far he’s come, or to urge the others to follow on, but before he can do so a tall figure appears at his back, blocking him from view. From somewhere behind where Dean is parked, a warning shout rings out, but the angel is gone just as quickly as it arrived, leaving Gordon’s body sprawled on the ground – smoking slightly and completely lifeless.

“That’s that then,” Dean says, finally exhaling.

Sam blinks away his shock. “Just like Chuck said.”

Cas looks enraptured from where he sits in the back. “A prophet of the Lord indeed.”

At the front of the line, John throws open his door and steps out. The sound of an army coming to life quickly follows; war has arrived in Ilium.

 

⚔

 

Immediately following their arrival, John calls a meeting. He greets each hunter personally, patting shoulders and shaking hands until everyone has taken their place in the makeshift assembly circle. Dean stands to the side with Sam and Cas, nervously checking and rechecking his holstered weapons, until Cas reaches over and lays a strong hand on Dean’s elbow to keep it pinned.

Once the buzzing has died down to a quiet murmur, John addresses his audience. “Welcome, friends,” he says. “I am honoured that so many of you have come so readily to my aid, and to the aid of my Mary, who was stolen from me by the very creatures and monsters who we regularly seek to destroy.” A slight muttering is heard from within the crowd, presumably from the few rebel angels, who in allying themselves with humans had risked everything – and Dean wonders briefly about Benny – but John is unperturbed and he pushes on. “Your presence here is invaluable, and it will never be forgotten.

“Today marks the beginning of a great hunt – one that will determine the future of the world for us, and our children. We fight not only for honour, and vengeance, but for what is _right_. There is no place for evil here, and we are the only ones with the power to remove it from the world, once and forever.

“This battle won’t be an easy one, and many of you may not live to see the end. We all know the risks, but the way I see it, the only important thing is that you came in spite of those risks, because you all know what’s really at stake.

“So for now, I leave you with this: every one of you has a part to play in this war – if it must come to that – and though at times you may feel fear, never forget that _your_ names will go down in history as the bravest of men and women. You are heroes, and you will crush those bastard demons and angels like the insects they are!”

A roar of applause and cheering follows this speech, and John steps back with a nod, confident in his words. “Dean, to me!” he calls as the assembly begins to disperse. “Sam, find Gabriel and Ellen and bring them here.”

Before Sam has a chance to stroll away, Dean grabs his arm and pulls him back. “Get Benny, too,” he mutters into his ear. Sam makes a displeased face, but he nods in understanding, striding off in search of the hunters their father wishes to confide in, and one he doesn’t.

Dean turns to Cas, who’s gazing at him with his usual searching look. “Some speech, huh?” The question is a cover for the sick feeling in Dean’s stomach, and they both know it, but Cas, merciful Cas, humours him nonetheless.

“It was rather stirring.”

“Reckon they know what they’re getting themselves into?” he asks, nodding his head in the direction of the scattering hunters.

Cas raises an eyebrow at Dean. “Do _you_ know what you’re getting yourself into?”

He shrugs. “A bloodbath, probably.”

“No doubt. _Whose_ blood remains to be seen.”

Dean frowns. “You don’t think our chances are good.”

“Ilium is nothing less than a fortress, Dean, built for one specific purpose. It will not be easy to take it by force, even if this were an army of thousands.”

“Guess we’re screwed then, huh?” Dean meets Castiel’s eye and shoots him a wry smile. Cas responds in kind, his eyes sparkling with a sort of broken mirth that sets Dean’s heart racing.

Once Sam returns with Ellen, Gabriel and Benny in tow, they begin their first real strategy session. Bobby and Rufus join them, and together they make a motley bunch: three old men, one hunter-turned-bartender, two brothers, an angel, and one bearish vampire. Ellen takes one look at the group and rolls her eyes. “Knew I’d be outnumbered,” she says. “It’s a goddamn sausage fest, this hunting business.”

Benny hoots with laughter. “Ain’t that the truth,” he chuckles, aiming a meaningful wink at Dean, who grimaces and stubbornly avoids Cas’ eye.

John frowns; it’s clear he still holds an old animosity towards Benny, and Dean knows he only trusts him as far as he can punch – and only because Dean asked him to. John’s attitude towards Cas, and the rebel angels in general, is much the same, and Dean hopes and prays his father never learns the real nature of his relationship with Cas. The backlash would cause an irreparable rift that Dean’s not sure John would ever recover from.

For the moment at least, John seems content to discuss his plans with them all without picking at open wounds. “Right,” he says once they’re all standing to attention, “time to talk strategy.” Gabriel chooses that moment to noisily unwrap a candy bar, and John glares with vehemence, though, perhaps wisely, he remains silent. “Sam,” he says, nodding at Dean’s brother, “you and I will lead an envoy to the warehouse gates tomorrow morning. We’ll offer them a chance to return Mary. If they hand her over peacefully, we pack up and leave. If they don’t, which I’m afraid to say is the most likely scenario, then we tell them we’re ready for war, and that we’ll show them no mercy.“

“Whoa there,” Benny interrupts, holding up his hands, palms out. “You’re jokin’ right?”

John tenses. “You got something to say?”

“Yeah, as a matter a fact I do. You two blunder up to those gates and they’ll kill you right on the spot.”

Gabriel shakes his head. “Aw, and where would be the fun in that? No, my dearest brothers won’t kill them; they much prefer to play with their food. Like cats. Big cats. Tigers, maybe.” He smirks and takes a large bite of his chocolate bar.

Bobby growls, though he voices his agreement. “Besides, I don’t see anyone with a better idea.”

“Aw, hell, Bobby,” Ellen says, “they don’t have to go at all. We all know the bastards ain’t gonna give up that easy.”

“I agree with Ellen,” Cas says without hesitation. “It’s an unnecessary risk.”

John, however, is unmoved. “I’m not going to war unless I’m sure it’s our only option.”

“It _is_ our only option, Pops,” says Gabriel. “War’s already begun; you just don’t know it yet.”

“We’re going,” John declares. “The decision’s been made.”

Dean meets Sam’s eye. “Okay,” he says slowly. “But I’m going with you.”

“No.” Both John and Cas say it in unison; Dean scowls. “You’re in charge of the camp while I’m gone,” John tells him. “I need you here.” He speaks with an air of finality, and Dean knows he has no choice but to obey – John’s word has never been contestable. Nevertheless he feels a stab of frustration. Watching Sam walk into the arms of their enemies will be impossible – worse than that, it will be a real, waking nightmare. Cas shifts beside him, and Dean can sense that he wants to touch him, to soothe his boiling blood with soft words and softer hands; Castiel has always been good at looking after Dean, and right now, Dean can only resent him for it.

John moves on brusquely, discussing the watches and the overseeing of food and water distribution. They decide on a location for the first-aid tent, and explore the possibility of a raid on the surrounding township. Dean listens but does not contribute, his thoughts drifting from Sam to his captured mother until his head begins to ache. He allows himself the luxury of hatred; the dark curl of desire that freezes his heart into something colder and stronger.

The meeting is adjourned and the hunters go their separate ways; the afternoon is waning now, and they must use the remaining daylight to make camp. Dean, however, approaches his father with steel in his eyes.

“You’re not going in there without me,” he asserts, resisting the urge to wince when John flicks his gaze upon him.

“Dean,” he says, voice weary, “don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.”

“Difficult? Are you kidding me right now? They’ll eat you alive!”

John shakes his head. “You heard Gabriel – they won’t.”

“Oh, so you trust him now?”

“I haven’t got any other choice, son.” He holds up a hand, stopping Dean from interrupting. “Tomorrow morning you’ll stay and guard the camp while Sam and I meet with Zachariah. The plan’s already been set; it’s done. We are not arguing about this.” He strides away without a second glance, leaving Dean feeling humiliated, like a young child sent to bed without his supper.

 

⚔

 

“I can look after myself, you know,” Sam says to Dean, sliding a small knife into the lining of his boot. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

Dean huffs, face pinched into a bitter frown. “This is a bad idea,” he says. “You get that, don’t you?”

Sam sighs. “Maybe. But Dad’s right – there’s no point in going to war if the whole thing can be avoided.”

“What? So you think our buddy Zachariah’s just gonna let Mom go? Just ‘cause a couple of humans tell him to?” He laughs. “They’re not afraid of us, Sammy – they’ve got no reason to be.”

‘Whatever. Look, at the very least it’ll be a chance to scope out the area; there’ll be other monsters around that’ll need to be dealt with before anything else. Dad and I can do some scouting; gather some intel before we go blundering in.”

Dean shrugs on his jacket, still frowning. “Since when do you take Dad’s side, anyway?” he asks.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, Dean, it’s a pretty _delicate_ situation we’ve got here. I want to get Mom back just as much as Dad – just as much as you. If we don’t work together then that will never happen.” Sam pats down his pockets, rechecking he has everything he needs. “You can brood about it all you want, but that’s not gonna help bring Mom home.”

Dean strides forward, nostrils flaring. “I want Mom home too,” he snaps. “But I don’t want to lose you in the process. Or Cas. Or–“ he falters, his anger dwindling. He exhales a long-held breath. “Just – be careful, alright?”

Sam nods and pats Dean’s shoulder. “I’m always careful, Dean,” he says, stepping around him and heading for the tent flap. “I learned that from you.”

 

⚔

 

The morning had dawned cool and grey, and Sam finds himself shivering as they make their way over Ilium’s boundary, wishing he’d had the sense to put on an extra layer instead of an extra dagger. The houses around them appear empty and long-abandoned; doors hang limp from their hinges, shedding paint onto their crumbling verandas. A feeling of foreboding sinks its claws into Sam’s heart, and it only grows the closer they get to Zachariah’s stronghold. He finds himself looking over his shoulder, expecting to see a gleaming angel looming over him, knife raised, but all he sees is the grim face of his brother, who watches from the camp’s edge with all the manner of a hungry lion.

They turn a corner then, and Dean’s face is lost from view. Sam swallows and returns his eyes to the street ahead. Beside him John’s got his hand in his pocket, ready to pull out a knife or a gun or God-knows-what. The street bends once more, and then they are at the entrance, staring up at a huge, unscaleable wall that is almost as menacing as the Black Gates of Mordor itself. Sam meets John’s eyes, asking a silent question. John shrugs and clears his throat. “Zachariah!” he calls out. “We’ve come to discuss terms for an agreement!”

Sam’s throat closes up and he pulls out his knife, turning around to face the way they came, expecting to see the enemy horde advancing upon them. The sound of a bolt sliding away makes him jump, and he swivels on his feet to see the gates opening slowly, revealing a path towards the inner fortress. Out of the corner of his eye he sees John steel himself, and together they step cautiously inside the walls.

_No turning back now_ , he thinks as they walk forward and the gates shut behind them. Doubts that he had held back so determinedly before now flock to his mind like a swarm of black flies; he shudders, this time not from the cold. He wonders if Dean was right, if they should have stayed away and skipped this part completely. But then an image of Mary flickers in his head – she is standing at the kitchen sink, her face tilted towards the rising sun, watching something out the window. She turns when she sees Sam and smiles, her blue sundress tickling at her calves, and when he smiles back she cups his cheeks in her palms and pats them gently.

The force of the memory surprises Sam; he blinks rapidly and shakes his head to ground himself, but the image of his mother remains with him, urging him onwards until they come to a stop outside the doors. There are no guards, and John holds up his hand with one finger extended, telling Sam to keep quiet. “Zachariah,” John says, “come out and speak to us. Or are you too cowardly even for that?”

Sam winces. He can feel his father’s rage radiating off him in waves, disturbing the otherwise stagnant air. No answer comes, and John bangs on the great metal doors with his fist. “Come out!” he yells. “Come out, you bastard!”

The door yields – by some angelic will or by John’s insistent hand – exposing a dark hole in the wall that almost seems to reach for them with shadowy hands. Something behind them rustles and both spin, raising their weapons in automatic response.

It’s an angel in a leather jacket, standing straight and tall with an impassive – almost bored – expression. “Zachariah will see you,” he says in a deep voice not so different from Castiel’s. “Enter.”

John shakes his head. “Tell Zachariah to meet us out here. We’re not going inside.”

“Then he will not see you.”

“Yes,” John says, readjusting his aim. “He will. You go and get him right now or I’ll put a bullet in your heart.”

The angel laughs. “Oh, you will, will you? You ever shot an angel before, Grandpa?”

Sam grinds his teeth together and sheathes his knife, palming a much heavier one instead. It glints when he lifts it into the air; suffused with the grace of the Castiel, whom he borrowed it from. The angel’s face falls when he sees, and Sam grimaces in triumph. “Get Zachariah,” he commands, “or I’ll stick this in your throat.”

He backs off, eyes flashing dangerously. “There’s no need to be rude,” he murmurs before vanishing into thin air. Sam breathes a sigh of relief.

John slaps his shoulder. “Thanks, kid,” he says. “That was some good thinking – borrowing that angel blade.”

Sam shrugs. “It was Cas’ idea, actually.”

John grunts and eyes the knife with a new kind judgement, as if looking for signs that it will spring to life and turn on them, all of its own free will.  His distrust, Sam has learned, knows no bounds. Still, he has come a long way from the ruthlessly prejudiced man he once was.

A flash of light bursts on their left and another angel appears, halo visible and burning above the dark curls of his hair. He wears a suit, immaculately tailored and almost impossibly tidy. John growls deep in his throat. “Who the hell are you?” he asks.

“My name is Michael,” he says. “I am an archangel.”

“ _You’re_ Michael?” Sam breathes, surprised. He knows about Michael, of course, has read about him in various lore books. Gabriel has mentioned him once or twice, though only in passing, and always with disdain. If Michael is on Zachariah’s side, then they are indeed in trouble.

“Yes,” Michael responds. “Zachariah, despite what you may have heard, is not the proprietor of this establishment.” He pauses, but remains perfectly still – almost statuesque – as he regards Sam and John. “I suggest you lower your weapons,” he says, “this is a peaceful parley.”

An invisible force settles itself on Sam’s arm, and he yields against it, the angel blade dropping to rest beside his thigh. John struggles against Michael’s power but is unsuccessful, and his pistol actually falls from his fingers, landing on the hard ground with a thud. He looks up at Michael with murder in his eyes. “Where’s Zachariah?” he demands. “Where’s my wife?”

“Zachariah is inside,” Michael says calmly. “He is not available to speak with you. I am the one with whom you will negotiate.”

Sam shakes his head. “We want to talk to Zachariah.”

“Children cannot always get what they want.” Michael’s upper lip curls derisively. “But don’t fear, I expect you will find me much more… diplomatic.” He snaps his fingers and the pressure on their arms is released. Sam flexes his fingers, grips his knife a little tighter. “I understand you have come to us with an ultimatum.”

Shivering, Sam turns to look at his father. John nods once – slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we have.”

“Continue.”

“Give us Mary, and we won’t show you any trouble.”

Michael smiles coldly. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Ain’t it?” John meets Michael’s gaze head-on in an unspoken challenge. Unperturbed, Michael stares back with barely a hint of hesitation until John is forced to blink and look away.

“No,” Michael states, “it is not.” He opens his fingers just so and a sword falls into his palm from seemingly nowhere. “However, it _would_ be simple to kill you now and have done with this whole affair.”

Sam raises his own angel blade automatically, even though he knows that if Michael decides to attack, they haven’t a chance. The archangel scowls and flicks his fingers, sending both Sam and John’s weapons flying. Defenceless, they take a step back each, closer to the gaping door of Ilium’s fortress.

“We are not the only players in this game,” Michael murmurs, his eyes flickering like ice under sunlight. “This is about more than a pathetic mortal woman and her equally pathetic husband. You humans have no idea.” He is advancing now, and Sam realises with painful clarity that they will either have to enter the building behind them, or they will have to fight. Either way, they’re probably dead. _God_ , he thinks _. Dean will never forgive me._

“Brother, stop this.” A new voice rings out, loud and commanding. Michael halts in his tracks and frowns, lowering his sword hand incrementally.

“Joshua.” His face flickers with annoyance. “What is your business?”

Joshua lays a hand on Michael’s shoulder, drawing him back. “Don’t harm them,” he says. “Zachariah orders you to let them be.”

“Zachariah has no power over me.”

“Perhaps not. But it would be unwise to contest him nonetheless. Lower your sword, Michael; don’t be a fool.”

Michael growls but obeys, backing off and vanishing his silver blade. “Tell me,” he snarls. “If I am not to kill them, what am I to do?”

Joshua shrugs. “Let them go.”

Anger in check, Michael draws himself up so he is standing straight and tall, and it seems to Sam that the whole world shrinks back in fear of the archangel. “Very well,” he says, “today is your lucky day.”

A breath that Sam had been holding escapes from his lungs, pushing out of his mouth and nose. Both the angels appraise them once more, and then they disappear in a whisper of wings, leaving nothing behind but a gate slowly swinging open, promising blessed freedom.

 

⚔

 

“I don’t get it,” Sam is saying as he paces the length of the small canvas tent. “He said there were other players. Doesn’t that sound weird to you?”

Dean shrugs and takes a casual swig of his beer. “What’s weird about it?”

Sam pauses in his wanderings to make a frustrated face at his brother. “Well, what does that even _mean_? He said it like… like there’s something we don’t know. Like there’s a – a bigger picture!”

“I dunno, Sammy. I don’t think you should take some bastard angel’s word as scripture.”

Castiel shakes his head, finally entering the conversation. “I agree with Sam. It is strange.”

“Oh, well, thanks for backing me up, Cas.” Dean rolls his eyes and slides off the bed, heading towards the exit. “I’ll meet you two outside.”

Sam turns to Cas, a small frown on his face. “What are you thinking?” he asks, sounding almost hopeful, like he expects Cas to know all the answers in the universe. For the record, he does not.

“I don’t know, Sam, but Michael is not a dishonest angel; he is many things, but he is not that.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He scratches the back of his neck, eyes fixed on an indeterminable point in the distance. “It’s just – we all thought this was really simple, y’know? Big bad angel swoops in and steals Mom away because he’s – well – _evil_. Or a perverted dick, I dunno. But what if there’s something else? What if this isn’t really about what we thought at all?”

Cas regards Sam thoughtfully. “Would it make a difference – if it were about something else?”

He blows air out from his lungs, seeming to deflate. “Probably not,” he says after a brief pause. “It’s still Mom.”

“Yes,” Cas agrees. “It is.”

They recheck their weapons and leave the tent together.

 

⚔

 

John puts Dean and Cas in charge of a division of fifty hunters or so. Their orders are to explore the western area of the town and eliminate any supernatural threats they encounter. Cas watches Dean chewing his lip as they prepare to leave; he’s observing Sam and Gabriel rallying their own cohort. Briefly, Cas presses his hand over Dean’s leather-clad shoulder. “He’ll be fine,” he reassures him, squeezing gently. Dean grunts and averts his gaze, checking that the magazine of his handgun is full for what must be the hundredth time.

Bobby approaches and nods grimly at the two of them. “We’re heading off then,” he says. “Good luck out there, boys.”

“You too.” Dean waves him off with a pretend salute and a wry smile. “Don’t break any hips, old man!” he calls out at his retreating back, laughing when Bobby flips him off. He looks at Cas. “You ready to go too?”

Castiel nods. “Of course.”

“Alright then,” Dean says. “Party time.” He signals to the troops and together they break away from the camp, heading around the town and to the west. The surrounding countryside is dry and mostly tussock; the ground is marked with various little dips, as if stock of some kind once grazed here, and sometimes Cas finds his footing disturbed by little stones and pieces of old brick.

Dean remains close by as they make their way, and he bumps his shoulder against Castiel’s every once in a while, as if checking he’s still there, still breathing. Cas lets him, not adverse to Dean’s touch in any form, but as they approach the town from the west side Dean drifts further away, lost in some unfathomable thought or other.

They split into smaller groups – some exploring the nearest houses and others, like Dean and Cas, heading further in, towards a cluster of old manors that scream monster habitation. Dean surveys the rundown buildings with a critical eye and comes to a conclusion born of years of experience. “Vamps,” he says, drawing a long-bladed knife from his belt. “Maybe a big nest.”

“We shouldn’t go in without backup,” Cas reminds him.

Dean nods curtly and signals to a group behind them. “You – with us.”

Together they advance, Dean giving silent orders with only his hands, sending some around the back, some to each side. He meets Castiel’s eye and twitches his lip in a wry sort of fashion. “Looks like we’re taking the front door,” he says, and Castiel knows he planned it that way on purpose – never one to back down from a challenge.

A tight feeling insinuates itself inside Cas’ belly and he grimaces, gripping his knife even harder. He’s confident they can handle a few vampires just the two of them, as long as there’s not a bigger nest than they first thought. “We need to be careful,” he murmurs to Dean, but the hunter’s eyes are cold and steely, his feet already advancing upon the building as if he was bred for the sole purpose of destroying all traces of the monsters within. Cas hurries after him, swallowing the lump in his throat like a bad-tasting pill.

The door creaks as it opens, revealing a large space cluttered with crates and bits of dank material thrown lazily over ceiling beams and dangling down, blocking certain areas from view. Shadows creep up the walls like dark ivy, hiding corners and casting an eerie hush about the place. Dean and Castiel stand shoulder to shoulder inside the entrance, checking for movement, sound – anything. But there’s nothing except the distant rattle of gunfire and shouts in the distance. The vampires know they’re coming, and Castiel’s convinced there’s a welcome party – somewhere.

Dean nudges his shoulder, gestures in a way that Cas takes to mean, _Let’s go_. They both step into the mansion, knives raises, instinctively turning their backs to one another for maximised perspective. No vampires rush out of the darkness at them, but they’re there; Castiel can sense them. They advance a little further and to Castiel’s left something moves – just a flash out of the corner of his eye. He shouts a warning as the first vampire springs out of the shadows, teeth bared into a dangerous grin. It lunges past Castiel and would have collided heavily with Dean if Cas had not swung his sword arm out and lopped off its head in one smooth movement. Both he and his companion spring into defensive positions, expecting another attack at any moment.

It comes; two – no, three – vampires pouncing upon them from all directions, fighting tooth and nail – easily overcome with a few slices from Dean and Castiel’s swords. The last vampire head falls at Castiel’s foot and rolls away into the shadows – an ominous warning to the others in the nest. Dean grabs Castiel’s sleeve and pulls him sideways into a small tunnel leading further into the complex. They each brandish small electric torches and together they hurry along a damp and narrow corridor, glancing left and right for any signs of the creatures who have made this place their home.

At last a doorway appears, opening into another wide room strewn with half-dismantled furniture. Dean enters in front of Cas and advances into the room carefully, checking behind each chair and table. Cas does a sweep of the other side, shining his torch into every possible hiding place. When he’s satisfied that the area is clear, he turns back to Dean, only to feel his throat close up in horror.

A vampire is closing in on Dean, so close it could almost snap Dean’s neck if it wanted. Cas shouts Dean’s name and launches himself towards it, knife raised. He watches Dean swivel and duck away from the creature’s deadly grasp, his body moving with lithe, strange godlike grace. His knife comes out in front of him and blocks the vampire’s first attack, forcing it to leap back, snarling. Cas catches it from behind, driving his knife into its abdomen and pushing it against the wall. Dean finishes it off with a swift blow, knocking its head halfway across the room.

They stare at one another, wide-eyed and panting, and an overwhelming urge to kiss Dean right there and then takes hold of Castiel. He banishes it, settling instead for gripping Dean’s shoulder and pulling him into a brief embrace. Dean snorts and clasps Castiel in return, landing a sloppy kiss on his jaw. “Okay,” he murmurs, voice gruff. “Okay.”

Cas breaks away from Dean’s loose hold and turns back to the room, searching for a way forward. They find another hallway, some stairs, at least a dozen more vampires crouching in the shadows.

When it seems they’ve checked every room upstairs, they chance upon a padlocked door tucked away in the master bedroom, looking ominous enough to warrant an investigation. Cas leads the way, touching his fingers to the stiff lock and breaking it open with a twist of his wrist.

Dean shakes his head in disbelief. “Those are some freaky angel powers, Cas,” he says, a lopsided smile pinching at his lips.

“Useful, though,” Cas comments, pocketing the padlock and shrugging.

“No kidding.”

They enter, their lights casting a gloomy light throughout the tiny, almost closet-like area. What they find inside startles them both, and Cas hears Dean swear from his place beside him before rushing forward to kneel beside the woman who is chained to the wall, limp and unconscious. “What the hell,” Dean breathes, scrabbling at the metal links binding her arms and legs. “She looks just like–“ the words catch in his throat and he sits back on his haunches, breathing heavily. He looks up at Cas, eyes wide and angry. “That’s Lisa.”

A dim memory awakes somewhere inside Cas – of a past love and something left mostly unshared. He blinks, limbs slow to respond, but Dean is already cradling her in his arms, checking her pulse and trying to wake her.

“She’s alive,” he murmurs, relief obvious in his voice. “Lisa,” he tries, patting her cheek. “Lisa, you with us?”

She remains unresponsive, and Dean curses once more, lifting her frail, undernourished body into his arms. “Cas,” he says, still staring at Lisa’s pale face. “Get us out of here. Now.”

Never one to deny Dean anything, Cas lifts his hand and grips Dean’s shoulder – a little harder than usual, maybe – and sends them hurtling back to camp.

 

⚔

 

The day is coming to a close; the town blazing underneath fiery pockets of red and gold clouds that streak like a painter’s brushstroke across an endless sky. To Sam the world suddenly and inexplicably seems at peace, and as he leads a straggling and limping cohort through the streets of Ilium he feels the dull edges of exhaustion press against his mind, humming like the sound of bees droning in a busy hive and pushing in like thick fog between high mountaintops. His legs feel like lead when he lifts them, and the sun warms his face even as it wanes, making him stumble with drowsiness.

Next to him Gabriel whistles a little tune, but even he cannot muster his usual brightness, and the melody trails off into stagnant silence. They trudge along, trampling dry grass and cracked stone beneath their iron-heavy feet, and Sam thinks about a cool beer, a soft mattress beneath his aching back.

The quiet keening noise of distress is a sharp contrast to the silence, but Sam takes a minute to really hear it, his mind too wrapped up in thoughts of the day’s sweet end. It sounds again, lower this time, and he pauses, scrunching his nose in concentration.

“Gabriel–“ he murmurs, then stops as the noise trembles around them once more. “Did you hear that?”

The angel looks pensive, his features darkening as he strains to listen. When the wailing starts up again he pivots on his feet and begins to walk away, down a narrow path hemmed in by crumbling stone walls.

“Gabriel,” Sam calls out, “wait!” He turns to the ambling group behind him and smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. “Go back to camp,” he tells them, “we’ll catch you up.” Then he turns on his heel and jogs after Gabriel, the keening noise echoing in his ears like a nightingale’s lament.

They find her strung up outside an old stone church, her dusky limbs spreadeagle and nailed to a crudely constructed cross, head hanging limp from her shoulders, curtained by loose, dark locks. From stigmata she bleeds, but her blood is bright yellow and shimmering, like the ichor of a god. Sam stops in his tracks when he sees, heart suddenly pulsing with doubt. _It’s a trap_ , he thinks immediately, shooting glances at the surrounding area, particularly the church, which seems to stoop like a frail grandfather, its walls quivering with the weight of its own roof.

“Something’s wrong,” he says, resting his fingers over his firearm, but Gabriel is already hurrying forward, reaching his arms out to pry the nails out of the woman’s palms. “Gabriel!” he calls out again, heart beating like the drums of war. “Get away from her!”

The angel ignores him, already loosening the second nail and holding out his arms to cradle the goddess in his arms. Sam steps closer, wary and uncertain, but Gabriel takes no notice, and the look on his face tells Sam that this is not just anyone; he knows her. Knows her well, judging from the uncharacteristically tender expression on his face. Gabriel whispers something that Sam doesn’t catch – a plea, maybe.

She stirs in his arms, reaching out to grip the collar of his shirt. Sam can’t make sense of it, but he swears he hears her murmur, “ _Loki_ ,” before passing out in the crib of Gabriel’s crooked arms.

 

⚔

 

“Who is she, again?” Dean’s eyes are sunken and ashen, but he’s sitting forward on the very edge of his stretcher-bed, bouncing his leg up and down like some kid hopped up on sugar.

Sam sighs and rubs at his eyes, struggling to stay awake. “Kali, Dean. _The_ Kali. The Hindu god of time.”

“And she’s here because…?”

“We found her. Nailed to a cross behind that old church. It’s Zach’s idea of some ironic joke, or something, I dunno. Either way, Gabriel’s _really_ mad. He knows her, I think.”

“Gabriel _knows_ her? What, like they’re old pals or something?”

Sam shakes his head and shrugs. “Or something, I guess.”

“Sheesh.”

“Yeah, and it gets weirder. I think, uh, I think Gabriel is Loki. I think Loki and Gabriel are the same guy.”

Dean looks at him blankly, processing, processing. Finally he gets it. “O-kay,” he murmurs slowly. “Sure. Okay.”

Sam looks at his brother closely, noting the way his gaze seems to slide away from Sam and latch dazedly onto the tent flap. “You good?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Dean nods. “Yeah, fine.”

“What about Lisa?”

He worries at his bottom lip and taps out a short erratic rhythm with his index finger on the leg of his jeans. “Doc says she’ll be alright.”

“Did the vamps…” Sam trails off, watching Dean’s response carefully.

“What? Bite her?” Dean shakes his head. “Nope. She had some needle marks, though; they were drinking her blood, just didn’t wanna turn her, I guess.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

They lapse into silence, Dean picking at a loose thread on his jeans, body drooping lower and lower as the minutes pass by. Sam feels it too: the immense weight of exhaustion and shock settling into his bones, filling up every hollow space in his body until there’s nothing left but dense weariness.

Cas steps inside, zipping up the tent on his way in and hovering a short distance from Dean, as if unsure whether he is welcome. Sam wonders how much he knows – about Lisa. About Kali. Gabriel. Loki. Enough, he supposes, to understand that something’s up.

But Dean reaches for him anyway, and the last thing that Sam sees before he drifts away is the touch of their fingers as they grasp hands, and the gentle ebb and flow of their bodies curving together, like yin and yang.

 

⚔

 

There’s salt in the air; Dean can taste it on his lips, feel the gritty scrape of it under his tongue and against his teeth. A sharp wind is howling, he realises, blowing spray from the sea into his hair and stuffing little granules of sand beneath his tattered fingernails.  Dean looks out, way out across the ocean to where the horizon cuts it away like a knife on canvas. There is nothing out there but empty sky and the bubbling broth of an irate sea, at least so far as Dean can see.

A cold chill insinuates itself under Dean’s skin, so icy he shivers and slides his frozen hands into his armpits for warmth. Even as he watches the water seems to stiffen and slow, the huge waves creaking as they come to a standstill. The sea emits one last groan before freezing over completely, and Dean half expects tornadoes to rise up out of the water like in Vonnegut’s _Cat’s Cradle_.

Instead, a great silence swells into being, pressing into Dean’s ears like cotton wool; he feels like he is drowning, though there is no water left on the earth.

“Stunning, isn’t it?” A man’s voice says from behind Dean.

Dean jumps and swivels, caught off guard. A sandy haired man is standing a little ways off, smiling amicably.

“What is this?” Dean asks, still trembling with the cold.

“You know Frost?” says the man, strolling forward to look out at the static ocean.

“What?”

With a deep breath he begins to recite a poem, spinning some distant cog of memory inside Dean’s brain. “ _Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire I hold this those who favour fire. But if I had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate, to say that for_ _destruction ice_ _is also great and would suffice_.” He pauses for a thoughtful minute, unblinking and seemingly unaffected by the cold. “He died before he could see it.”

“See what? And who are you anyway?” Dean stamps his feet, teeth chattering.

“You don’t recognise me?” The man frowns exaggeratedly and then shrugs. “Well, I suppose you wouldn’t. All your books illustrate me with pitchforks and ridiculous barbed tails. And flames. It’s all rather inaccurate; ice is _much_ better.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You trying to tell me that you’re the _devil_?”

He holds out his hand, winking garishly. “Please, call me Lucifer.”

“Right.” Dean ignores his hand and looks around instead, noting the vast plain behind the beach, punctuated only by a small grove of fruit trees all laden and stooping with a succulent harvest. He’s still freezing, little goosebumps covering every slip of his exposed skin.

Beside him Lucifer clucks his tongue reprovingly. “You ought to be a little more respectful, Dean Winchester. I hold the fate of your world in my hands.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean challenges. “How’s that?”

“Well…” The man who claims to be Lucifer smiles eerily. “I could return your mother to you, if I were so inclined. Easy as pie.”

“What did you say?” Dean balls his hand into a fist, eyes flashing dangerously.

“I won’t, of course,” Lucifer continues. “Where would be the fun in that?” He laughs – ghoulish and delighted. “No, but I could arrange a meeting. Right here, even. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Seething, Dean grits out his next words from between clenched teeth. “I don’t make deals with the devil.”

“A deal? No, Dean, this one’s on me.’ He snaps his fingers and the oceans resume, crashing onto the shore with such a stunning noise that Dean fears he will be rendered deaf. Lucifer snaps again and Mary Winchester appears, still garbed in the same nightgown she was wearing the day Zachariah took her away.

Dean stumbles forward, gasping, and although Mary widens her eyes in confusion she still manages to hold onto Dean as he wraps his arms around her, swallowing down a tremendous sob. “Dean?” she whispers. “My Dean?”

He nods and tightens his grip on her, pressing his face against her delicate shoulder. “Hey, Mom.”

She strokes a hand through his hair with a gentleness that sets Dean’s heart aching. He pulls back, smiling though the dampness of his eyes. “What is this place?” she asks.

“I don’t know. A dream, I think.” He looks around for Lucifer, but the devil has disappeared, leaving the town of them alone. “Mom.” He turns back to Mary, meeting her eyes. “Are you okay? Has Zachariah hurt you?”

She touches his cheek, smiling gently. “I’m fine, Dean.”

“We’re gonna get you out. Don’t worry, alright?”

“I know, my darling, I know you will.”

“I love you, Mom.”

She kisses his forehead and holds him close again. “I love you too. And your brother. You’ll tell him that for me, won’t you?”

“Yeah, I’ll tell him. Promise.”

“That’s my good boy,” she smiles. “You look after yourself, Dean,” she says, and Dean can feel the dull hooks of wakefulness dragging him out of the dream. He resists, gripping tightly to his mother’s back, but the pull is too strong and he floats away, her last _See you soon_ echoing like a sweet chant inside his head.

He wakes cradled in a nest of Castiel’s arms, the chill from the dream still lingering in the hollow spaces between his bones.

 

 

**Part 2**

 

Every room in Ilium’s fortress is cold. Everything Mary touches, everything she feels beneath the pads of her fingers, the balls of her feet – everything is like ice after a savage winter frost. She can see her breath each time she exhales, smoky and white, curling away and into the air – no longer a prisoner inside her freezing lungs.

From her window she can see the tiny sprawl of the township, reaching out with arms of houses towards an empty countryside. When they first came here there had been a few inhabitants, but Zachariah’s horde had driven them out and they had been replaced by an army of monsters: vampires, djinn, spirits, even demons.

Now a new army has arrived – John’s army – who have pitched their tents at the very edge of the town’s boundary, ready to fight, even die, for Mary’s life. Among them are her two sons, and she fears for them with all the strength of a helpless mother bear – her cubs trapped in the eye of some raging forest fire.

She fears and she breathes her dragon’s breath.

Zachariah doesn’t touch her anymore; he knows better now. She only had to threaten to take her own life once; after that he had learned quickly that she would not submit herself to his foul advances. She is trapped, imprisoned, stripped of all dignity, but she is nobody’s whore.

_You’re a queen now_ , Zachariah had said to her as he stole her away from her home. But as she wanders the cold and empty halls of this corrugated castle, fraying nightgown still clinging to her pale skin, she feels nothing but the vacuous presence of everything she has lost. This grey barricade is no kingdom; Zachariah is no king. And she is only a prisoner to these angels and demons, nothing more.

Last night she dreamt of her son; she held him in his arms and he made such earnest promises that she questioned whether it had been a dream at all. When she woke she had felt cold, colder than usual, as if her very bones had been plunged into an icy lake.

She touches the frosted pane of her window, glassy and misted in the early morning, and wonders if her children know just how much she loves them.

 

⚔

 

“Dean?” Lisa blinks and shudders sleepily. “Where am I?” Cuts litter her face, and one yellowing bruise stretches out like a coffee stain across her cheek. She tries to sit up but Dean presses her back, one broad palm covering her shoulder.

            Cas watches as Dean takes her slender fingers in his other hand and rubs them gently. “Hey Lisa,” he murmurs. “How’re you feeling?”

“Blurry.” She squints, nose wrinkling prettily. “What happened?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No, I–“ she presses her hand against her cheek and hisses in pain when she touches the bruise. “Ow.”

“Take it easy, yeah?” Dean motions for Cas to get her some water and he brings one over, hands it to Dean. Her eyes dart to his, taking him in with wary brown eyes. “That’s Cas,” Dean says as he holds the plastic cup to her lips. “He’s a… friend.”

Cas’ heart crumples a little inside his chest, like the many pages of a failed first draft. “Hello,” he says, unsmiling.

She nods at him as Dean tips a little more water into her mouth. “Hi, Cas,” she says after swallowing.

“We found you in a vampire nest,” Dean says, resting the cup on a little stool beside her stretcher. “You were real beat up.” His voice trembles. “We only just got to you on time.”

Lisa’s brow is furrowed. “A vampire nest?” Her eyes widen and she lifts a hand to her neck, feels around for any breaks in the skin there.

“It’s alright,” Dean tells her. “They didn’t bite you.” He turns her hand over and shows her the single bruise-ringed puncture wound in her wrist. “They used needles.”

She blinks, staring down at the almost invisible hole in her skin. “I don’t understand.”

Dean sits back slightly in his chair, grim-faced and sorry. “They were feeding,” he says. “And–“ he looks up at Cas, almost guiltily, as if he only just realised Cas was standing there. He lets go of Lisa’s hand, lays it back down on the soft bed. “I gotta fill you in on some stuff, Lise,” he murmurs.

The story starts out jumbled, with Mary’s kidnapping, the ensuing hunt to find her and bring her home. Cas doesn’t stay for all of it – he wanders away, out of earshot, chewing his lip in an unfamiliar but strangely comforting manner.

Dean and Lisa have a history – he knows that much. Perhaps Dean even loved her once. Perhaps he shared her bed and kissed her languidly in the morning and touched her lovingly – reverently. Like he touches Cas, sometimes. His chest aches to think it, though he knows it is garish and petty and _human_ to be jealous. If she brought Dean any measure of happiness at any time, then Cas is grateful to her, and that is that.

 

⚔

 

“Let me go.”

“Kali, listen–“

“Unchain me, Loki, or I will unleash the full fury of _Bhavatarini_ on your skinny white-man’s ass.”

Gabriel recoils as if struck. “Would if I could, Kali, but I’m just as tied up as you, when it comes down to it.”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” she spits, struggling futilely against her bonds.

“Winchester refuses to let you go. Says you might turn traitor – rat us out to the enemy.”

She scoffs. “They _crucified_ me, Loki. You think I would go back to them after they did that?”

Gabriel reaches out, as if to touch her, but he withdraws his hand before it makes contact. “I don’t,” he sighs. “You know I don’t.”

“Then why?”

“Orders. John’s orders. He doesn’t trust you – barely trusts _me_. Not a fan of the inhuman, that one.” Gabriel shrugs and makes a face. “Still, I’ll see what I can do. I haven’t forgotten us, Kali. My love.” His voice turns tender, remissive.

She does not respond, only watches him with bright, black eyes as he turns away and leaves the makeshift prison, heart and head and halo trembling.


End file.
